


Visiting Hours

by pipelliot



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, M/M, Post-5x13, Post-Series, Pre-Slash, Various mentions of past Arthur/Gwen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-22 23:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/615317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipelliot/pseuds/pipelliot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin takes Arthur to see the ruins of his kingdom. Post series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Visiting Hours

**Author's Note:**

> This is totally unbeta'd, hardly looked over at all, and probably a monster. Forgive me, it's 6:30 in the morning and my all-consuming adoration for my Queen Guinevere is showing. (Also, daffodils. Again. And my baby is young again! And this may just defy all science. But shh, there's magic, so uh... okay I'm done now.)

Merlin observes the sign. It is perhaps the only spot of land on the entire stretch that the burnt dusk sun doesn't hit, and he blinks at it for approximately half a second before dismissing it entirely and tugging on the cuff of Arthur's sleeve.

"Come on," he says, starting down to tread across the wide, hilly stretch.

"Wait," says Arthur sharply, stopping dead still. He swallows hard, staring at the expanse of land, the golden light, the crumbled kingdom within a crumbled wall within a long pointy gate that doesn’t fit, not at all. It stands with the stench of all that’s contemporary, lacking all the beauty of the younger earth, the fresh air, everything else dirty but hardworking and honest. Arthur's eyes are wide and glazed over, altogether overseeing all and yet like he sees something else entirely to Merlin, eager to find out every truth and Merlin’s not sure if Arthur's ready for it at all yet.

"Merlin, you said..." Arthur trails off, nodding at the sign, gripping on to Merlin's sleeve too tightly but in a way Merlin supposes Arthur doesn’t realize at all.

_Visiting hours:_

_Mon-Fri 9am-6pm  
Sat-Sun 12pm-6pm_

_**Strictly no trespassing.** _

"...you said it was...Sat-Saturday?" Merlin nods subtly, can’t help a small smile of encouragement as Arthur still tries to break through the confusing muddle of the newly-named and discovered days and months in his mind, "And it's..." He looks to the watch Merlin gifted him that wraps snugly around his wrist, studying it for a moment. "...it's 6:25. “ 

Merlin watches, painfully, at how difficult it is for Arthur not to pose it as a question, how determined he is to be right and not seek assurance. Merlin knows how helpless Arthur must feel and he hates it wholly.

"PM," Arthur adds somewhat belatedly, with a nod of reassurance, mostly to himself, but looking to Merlin for answers while not asking them out loud.

"Yes," Merlin smiles. He doesn't mean to come across as so condescending, but Arthur must take it that way. He rolls his eyes, but says nothing about it.

"It says no trespassing," says Arthur, firmer, straightening his back some. _I can still read, you dolt._

"Oh, come on," says Merlin, tugging on Arthur's sleeve in turn with an eyeroll of his own. He’s surprised, but glad, at how steady it comes across. It's difficult to smile, to be light in the face of literal ruin, but he'll do it for Arthur, for as long as he needs Merlin to. "It's your kingdom after all."

If Arthur wanted to stop, he could; he is all but double Merlin's strength, even while Merlin now finally holds his forever-youth. But, with a small huff Merlin doesn't quite believe, Arthur stumbles along behind Merlin until they are near shoulder to shoulder again.

They don't hold hands, but it's a near thing. Merlin's fingers clutch onto the cuff of Arthur's light red hoodie, and Arthur's pull silently (and a little bit shakily, but Merlin won't say it out loud) on Merlin's blue one.

_("It itches, Merlin."_

_"No it doesn't."_

_"Merlin, it_ itches. _"_

_Merlin smiles in the doorway, giggling silently as Arthur snuggles closer into the soft red fabric that night with a happy sniffle and a too-familiar snore.)_

They took a slow journey through the familiar forest, which has since been shaped and changed to suit what Merlin supposes they all need now. Instead of the pebbley path that’s been specially mapped out for ‘visitors’ today, they take the sideways route, emerging out onto the wide expanse of hills and everything over-grown, beautifully and simply green and open. They walk quickly enough now, though, feet falling occasionally down the uneven ground, and then occasionally grasping onto each other (subtly, of course, in Arthur's case) for support. It comes closer and closer, the mess of stones, the patches of too-long grass, of land left alone but contained, uncared for despite the lengths that families and lovers travel to visit it.

_("Lovers?"_

_"It_ is _a rather romantic story."_

 _"I_ died. _"_

_"The greatest king of all married a servant girl, Arthur. Folk these days are suckers for that kind of thing."_

_They're_ what? _")_

They come to a stop, technically farther from as far as they could go. Merlin doesn't watch the land in all it's broken, haloed glory; has seen it many, many times before. Has watched it deteriorate from when the very first stone fell loose. Instead, he watches Arthur.

He watches Arthur hold his breath for too long, watches the steady heave of his body as he finally lets it loose. His eyes roam every inch-- and there's so much space, and Merlin can tell that Arthur can place exactly where everything had once stood. He knows where Gwen's old gardens would’ve blossomed, the exact measurement of the expanse of the courtyard outside their keep, the spot where the horses were kept in their wobbly old stables. Merlin watches Arthur look on his entire life, everything he loved, rotting to noble pieces.

There's a determined set to his jaw, a tired anguish and-- and _guilt_ in his eyes, and Merlin only confirms in his mind what he knew all along, anyway; that Arthur is the strongest man he's ever known (and adored.)

Merlin watches as Arthur’s gaze flickers to the orange sky once before falling down, once again unseeing as he nods, once, and starts further down the mostly untouched grassy path. "Come on, then," it's Arthur's turn to say, and Merlin's not at all surprised by the levelness of it.  
They stop once they reach the length of the side of the thin black gate, and round it until they reach the official entrance, where there's an actual gateway that Merlin can temporarily burst the lock off of and detach. 

They freeze at another sign, however; a sign that, when Merlin first saw it erected, reduced Merlin to sudden, all-consuming, wretched and downright painful sobs, and Merlin, for only a second, expects Arthur to do the same.

 _The Old Stones of Camelot_ , it reads, in bold and curled and fanciful script, carefully designed to match the land in its age. Below, it goes on to describe the land beyond it and what goes unfenced, the land Merlin and Arthur had just trampled on, and how it belongs to the keep; how the whole castle would have stretched along the whole plain, how the history of that matters too.

All the dates are wrong, of course, grossly so-- but so is most of everything they claim. It's alright though, seeing how all the great stories, all the legacies-- how it's all myth, anyway. Child's play. Tourist fodder.

(Merlin hasn't told Arthur any of those parts, yet-- how Merlin breathed and Arthur slept for thousands of years and how people still don't think they're real. He regretfully suspects Arthur has guessed as much, though, anyway.)

Arthur clears his throat beside him, and Merlin takes his cue to close his hand over the gates’ lock, whispers words that make it glow blue and watches the gate swing open.  
Arthur breathes and breathes and breathes, breaths becoming too shallow for Merlin's liking, until he reaches for Arthur's cuff firmly once again. Arthur breathes deeper this time, visibly deflating, washing out the panic that Merlin knows took over him only momentarily, and grasping onto Merlin again in return.

They walk as the sun sets; Arthur looking and taking in practically everything but stopping to kneel at some, to touch and stroke and look for clues of the lives once lived between it all. Merlin watches the furrow of his brows, the way he chews his bottom lip, the way his mouth goes agape when he presses his ear to a particularly withstanding pillar. Merlin doesn't know what Arthur's listening for, exactly, just carefully keeps only a slight distance as Arthur explores it all-- just waits patiently (he's good at that now) until he's ready to come back to Merlin, hold on to Merlin's sleeve and keep going.

Merlin's magic simmers under his skin when they find it, even though Merlin's certain he has this spot engraved into every part of him, knows it thoroughly and completely. Had often -- long before Arthur came home-- come under the blanket of below-freezing nights, holding his raggedy coats to his chest, trying his hardest to stifle sobs and shivers and desperate loneliness; talking to grass and stone and failing at it all.

"Arthur," Merlin stops, his hold on Arthur stopping him too. Arthur's eyes are searching until Merlin swallows, says as steadily as he can, "Here. She’s here.”

Arthur lets go and Merlin lets him.

Arthur's expression is carefully schooled in a way Merlin hasn't seen in a long time, one Merlin knows as Arthur trying not to show anything at all, even though there's no one around. That's why Merlin suspects it fails, Arthur allowing the gentle line between his brows, the sadness in his bright, bright blue eyes.

Of course Merlin told Arthur shortly after he woke of the fate of Camelot, of everyone, of Gwen, while Arthur had... while he had rested. Arthur knows of how she lived, how she died, everything according to every question Arthur had asked, Merlin giving every truth this time round.

That had been months ago. It has been months since Arthur woke, and Arthur knows. Knows it all. Only the previous Friday night, when Merlin had come home from work and dropped the Chinese takeaway on the countertop, had Arthur finally asked him, quiet but certain:

_Can we go see her?_

(Merlin's still not sure whether he meant Camelot or Gwen, but he assumes both; the two shiny loves of Arthur's desperately shortened life.)

Arthur slowly goes to his knees. He is composed, however, as they dig into the dry soil. There's nothing there, nothing remarkable as such, only stray lumps of dusty old rock, not unlike everything else around them. 

When Merlin first used to come here, the plainness made him angry, so he'd arrange Daffodils around the space, alter the stones into silly shapes like hearts and dragons ( _Pen_ dragons) to let people know that it was special, that’s it’s so special.

During most of Merlin’s earlier, unsteadier visits, he’d talk determinedly to the ground of having a marble erected. A proper marking place. Something beautiful yet understated, strong and truly remarkable, _for you, Gwen. I’m sorry it won’t be enough, but it’ll be just for you._ It was only a small corner, so it wouldn't scream at the world of it's presence. It'd only stand quiet and regal but still utterly remarkable, like her. Just like her. That's all Merlin wanted, but he knew he couldn't tamper with the site like that without people noticing, not without upsetting some, too.

Arthur crawls over to where the rocks lay, traces his fingers over them lightly before sinking back onto his heels, hands fumbling in his lap. For a moment he looks so suddenly lost, so terribly uncertain, that Merlin's throat closes up and his eyes threaten to water, but he wills it all away because Merlin needs to be strong for Arthur; needs to be, in the moment he firsts lays his eyes on the resting place of his Queen, his wife, and everything else, everything glorious that Guinevere was.

"Tell me, again," Arthur says quietly. “Tell me how she lived."

Merlin smiles, tries his hardest to fit it into his voice. "She lived so well. She served for forty strong years, and she lived so well, Arthur. She did." Merlin couldn't contain the pride in his tone

"And did she love again?" Arthur knows the answer, and Merlin knows he knows. He sounds so weary, though, and Merlin finds he can only indulge him.

"She didn't need to," Merlin says, and he knows Arthur knows that too. Gwen loved her people, and her people adored Gwen. It's something that Merlin knows always makes Arthur smile; and sparklingly so, genuinely.

They fall silent again, Arthur just sitting for awhile and Merlin lets him. Eventually Arthur moves so he no longer sits on his heels, but stretches out his no-doubt sleepy legs so he can sit with them folded more comfortably, hands still visibly fumbling between them.

Merlin averts his eyes for a moment, not sure whether he should walk away and give Arthur some time alone, worrying that if he does Arthur might need him and not say a word because-- well, because he's Arthur.

Merlin’s gaze wanders, however, until he spots a dot of yellow not too far to his left and contemplates for all of a second before dashing quietly over to it and plucking it with steady fingers. He looks at the daffodil, a lone soldier in the middle of summer, twirls it between his fingers and smiles a little shakily before returning to the lumps of stone and a blankly staring Arthur.

Only he doesn't stare blankly, not at all, as Merlin can see when Arthur turns around to him briefly, nodding and smiling only a little wobbly at the flower in Merlin's hand. He tilts his head in a gesture for Merlin to come closer, and so Merlin does, dropping the flower carefully before him, where Gwen lay, and sitting back to wrap his arms around his knees and to rest his chin on them, too.

Merlin doesn't know how long they just sit there, pressed against one another, looking, breathing, taking it all in together. But there isn't a golden glow over them all anymore, only the violet sky above, when Arthur drops his head onto Merlin's shoulder.

It's not shy. Not at all gentle or careful or uncertain. It just is, and happens naturally, unquestioned.

Merlin knows Arthur's not broken. There's a sorrow there, of course; it casts shadows in Arthur's eyes, Merlin can see them sometimes, odd times. When they lounge on the couch (Merlin's feet tucked under Arthur's thighs) while Merlin stares mindlessly at Coronation Street on the box and Arthur reads something off of Merlin's bookshelves, Merlin would look over sometimes, and catch Arthur's eye wandering past the page, almost dead in a way that Merlin finds vaguely terrifying, but that Merlin has come to accept with the infrequency with which they nowadays come about.

So there's a sorrow, yes. And Merlin suspects it will always be there, however vibrant or however dull, depending on the days. But it's not all-encompassing, it's never absolute, and it never will be, as far as Merlin's concerned; as long as there's that gleam, that little sparkle in Arthur’s eyes that Merlin will tell Arthur about just to see the pretty blush of his cheeks, and that Arthur will always deny because he's _not a girl, Merlin_. (And then Merlin will proceed to scold and guide him through the age of feminism, tell him of how _everything’s evolved, Arthur,_ and go on to slap him lightly once, and then twice for Gwen.)

So yes-- as long as there's that sparkle, Merlin knows everything will be alright.

Heat covers Merlin's chilling hand, nudging him from his thoughts. And then their fingers loop together, his and Arthur’s, and tightly. Merlin’s only reaction is that he smiles, small, before bringing the back of Arthur's hand to his lips, warm and chaste against the cold skin, and then turning to kiss the top of Arthur's head just briefly , before tilting his own head against it to watch the sky.

It's a first, but it's not strange, not at all, and neither says a thing when they clutch each other now instead of each others sleeves.


End file.
